


Date Night

by SolarMorrigan



Series: Solar's 007 Fest 2019 [28]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest, Bond being soft, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Other, a little internalized transphobia, genderfluid Q, this is mostly comfort though I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 22:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20015926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: It's date night, and Q was planning on putting on a suit and going out with Bond and feeling very handsome. Except - he'd much rather put on a dress tonight and feel beautiful (but he feels like that's probably out of the question)





	Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> Day 28! Trans Characters Day! I wrote this one a while ago, kind of following the piece I wrote last year about genderfluid!Q ([Code](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15127106/chapters/35755368)). It doesn't fill anything, but I'm pretty fond of it, anyway
> 
> This one does deal with gender dysphoria and a little internalized transphobia on Q's part, but it's mostly comfort. Q (in the previous piece) has expressed that most pronouns don't bother him, and so "he/him" pronouns are still used throughout the story. This is in no way meant to be invalidating, as pronouns do not always equal gender expression. All the same, if I've included anything very harmful in here, please let me know so I can fix it

It’s date night, such as it is.

Between Q’s own hectic work schedule and Bond’s travel for missions, it’s difficult to set up an actual, regular date night, but they do their best with the time they have.

Bond is presently grounded (medical is attempting to impose their will, keeping Bond off missions while a minor wound to his shoulder heals and he is subjected to physical therapy, but everyone involved knows that the moment there’s an important enough mission on M’s desk, Bond will be off again) and Q’s work load has been comparatively light, and so Bond has used his secret agent powers (Q’s words, not Bond’s) to secure them a last-minute reservation at one of the nicer restaurants in town. They’ve planned to be dapper: suits and ties and sleek lines, eyeing one another across the table and going home and thoroughly mussing one another up.

The thing is–

Just, the thing is, Q’s spent all day in a suit and tie—one for work, rather than a fancy dinner, but a suit and tie nonetheless—and by the time he gets home, he’s entirely sick of it.

He doesn’t want to be sleek lines today. He doesn’t want planes and angles, nor trousers and jackets. He doesn’t want _masculine_ today.

Of course, there’s time before the reservation; he’s actually made an early day of it and he has hours to reacclimate to the idea of putting on a suit and going back out in public where people will _see_ him in the suit and – well, he has time.

In the meantime, however, he shucks his work clothes as quickly as possible, laughing a little when his jacket and shirt landing on the bed startle Steve and Doughnut from their afternoon nap, and selects a pair of pajamas from the dresser.

They’re a nice, soft blue; loose-fitting and lacy and comfortable. They disguise the straight lines of his torso and hips and soften his figure a little. Dysphoric days like this don’t come too terribly often, but Q never appreciates his pajamas and overlarge jumpers so much as when they do appear. He takes off his glasses and musses his hair until falls around his face, easing the sharp angles of it a little, and sets up with his laptop on the sofa, ready to relax before he has to dress up again and go out.

Bond is still at work, terrorizing a group of agents in training as he’s taken to doing when stuck in London (a habit that Q has been encouraging, hopeful that Bond will look at it as a viable alternative to fieldwork when the time comes), and won’t be home for a little bit yet, and so Q is impressed with himself when he manages to pull his nose away from his screen with more than enough time to get ready without any outside reminders.

He wanders back into the bedroom and meanders over to the closet to take out his outfit for the evening. He runs a regretful hand over the hangers holding his skirts and dresses, but he doesn’t own anything nice enough to have dinner where they’re going – never mind the fact that he really doesn’t think he has the courage to go out in anything so overtly considered feminine. He turns to his nicest suit instead and lays it out on the bed.

He stares at it for a moment, then goes to the dresser to take out a tie. He spends longer than usual deliberating over them; the blue one is his favorite, but the shade doesn’t really go with the suit. The green is Bond’s favorite, but Q isn’t really feeling the color. The purple is nice, but he’s not sure… he shakes his head. He’s procrastinating, he knows he is.

Q takes the green tie, places it with the suit, shoos Steve away where he’s sniffing interestedly at the sleeve of the jacket, then moves back to the dresser to pull out socks and pants. He considers a pair of knickers, but rejects the idea. Something about wearing them under his suit like a secret doesn’t feel right today.

Outfit put together, Q no longer has a reason not to get dressed, and yet is still standing there staring down at the bed five minutes later when Bond comes home.

“Thinking deep thoughts?” Bond asks, coming up behind Q so he can look at the suit as well.

“Not particularly,” Q replies; he’s mostly thinking about how much he doesn’t want to put on the suit.

It’s silly, because Q loves the suit, usually. It’s a very nice suit. He feels attractive when he wears it. Handsome.

But he supposes that’s the issue.

“Did you still want to go out?” Bond asks after a moment.

The question isn’t a disappointed one, nor even apprehensive; it’s simply Bond finding the limits of the evening – finding out what’s changed.

Q isn’t altogether sure of the answer. He wants to be able to go out with Bond. He wants to be able to put on a suit, go to dinner, flirt through the evening, then come home and fuck so hard the bed shakes.

He wants to be _able_ to, but he isn’t sure he actually _wants_ to. So he shrugs.

“May I?” Bond asks, and when Q looks around, he finds Bond much closer than he was before; he’s asking if he can touch.

The answer is rarely “no,” but it has been just enough times that when Bond can see Q is already uncomfortable, he asks. There are times Q doesn’t like to be reminded of himself. Today, though, he doesn’t feel like he minds all too much.

Q nods, and Bonds arms slide around his waist. He smells freshly like shampoo (his own, of course, though he’d showered at work after finishing with the class, because he’d never use something so common as the shampoo that the locker rooms provide if he can help it) when he leans in to press a kiss to Q’s cheek.

“Is it the “out” part you don’t want or the clothes that are bothering you?”

“A little of both, I think,” Q replies. “More the latter, though. Would be nice if I could wear a dress.”

“You could,” Bond offers, as though it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.

(Q wishes it was.)

“Unlike the women you encounter on missions, I am not made of evening gowns,” Q says, doing his best to inject a little humor into his voice. “I don’t have anything nice enough for this restaurant.”

“Then we’ll go somewhere else,” Bond says. “I’ll just be happy to be with you.”

It’s a wonderfully sweet offer, but Q still isn’t sure he wants to find out how he’d bear up under the perceived scrutiny of everyone they cross paths with. He still feels a flutter of panic the first time he lets a friend see his full wardrobe, never mind how he’d feel about complete strangers.

“I don’t think so.” Q shakes his head.

“Do you want to stay in?”

“James, no, you went to all the trouble to get reservations, and it’s – sort of date night. I’m being difficult, just let me–”

“Q,” Bond cuts in, voice serious, “do you really think I want to go out so badly that I’d make you spend the evening feeling poorly about yourself?”

Well. When phrased like that.

“No?” Q ventured.

“The point of tonight is to spend time together. It’s supposed to be nice, not stressful.”

Q turns in Bond’s arms. “I really was looking forward to tonight,” he feels obligated to assure Bond. “The dressing up and going out bit, I mean.”

“Then let’s dress up and stay in,” Bond suggests.

Q makes to glance back over his shoulder at the suit, but Bond catches his chin and brings Q’s gaze back to him. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll wear a suit tonight, you can pick a dress, do your makeup…”

It _does_ sound nice. “You’re really going to put on a nice suit just to, what? Eat delivery with me?” Q asks.

Bond smirks. “Q, I would put on a nice suit for you if all you wanted to do was strip me back out of it.”

It’s meant as a joke, Q knows, but he’s uncomfortably reminded of their plans for _after_ dinner.

“I’m not sure I’ll be up for that tonight,” Q warns. “I’m not… really very comfortable, today.”

“Maybe after you get to spend some time dressed as you want to be. Or maybe tomorrow. Or maybe two weeks from now.” Bond kisses the corner of Q’s mouth. “Just don’t judge me for the length of my showers between now and then.”

Q snorts out a laugh, giving Bond a proper kiss. “You already take ridiculously long showers whenever you can get away with it. I’m not sure I’ll be able to tell the difference.”

“Brat,” Bond murmurs fondly. “Get dressed, then I’ll take care of the food.”

Absolved now of the need for the suit, the need to present as someone he isn’t today, Q feels both lighter and apprehensive. Despite Tanner and Moneypenny and Bond’s acceptance of him, Q isn’t used to people simply being _okay_ with him as he is.

He wants to ask Bond how he’s just fine with all of this, but he doesn’t want to question it at all.

Instead, he allows Bond one more kiss before they part, and Q sets about tidying up his previous outfit while Bond pulls a fine suit of his own from the closet.

Bond doesn’t say a word while Q deliberates over dresses, just getting himself dressed while Q takes his time choosing now that he has the freedom to do so. He ends up with his nicest one (perhaps not nice enough for a fine dining establishment, but still nice), and retreats to the en suite with it.

Once changed, Q pulls his cache of makeup off the shelf; he doesn’t have occasion or opportunity to wear it very often, but he keeps it all neat and well-stocked for when he can. After a moment of consideration, he takes out the lot of it: foundation, highlighter, blush and shadow and lipstick and everything. Why not? Tonight is meant to be nice, after all.

He loses himself in the motions of applying cream and powder, contouring and coloring, taking his time to make it perfect. He knows, of course, that a person doesn’t have to wear makeup to be feminine, but he’s always enjoyed it himself. He’s gotten to be quite good at it.

By the time Q’s finished, he feels more settled than he has all day. The face that looks back at him in the mirror feels like his again, something he’s been allowed to take back control of, and he’s pleased enough that he grabs a pair of heels from the closet when he returns to the bedroom.

Though he’d been rubbish on high heels most every time he’d been able to try them out, he’d stubbornly bought a pair or two anyway, and had been pleased to accept Moneypenny’s tutelage on the subject. Now the shoes are bit of a growing habit.

Q slips into them and does a shameless twirl in front of the wardrobe’s full-length mirror (because it’s fun, because he can, because he feels good), then follows the sound of soft music out into the living room.

Bond is there, standing by the stereo, and though it sounds like he starts to say something as Q comes around the corner, he stops short.

His outline is dashing, if fuzzy, and his face is indistinct. Q regrets that he didn’t bother with his contacts before coming out of the bathroom (or even with his glasses, but they don’t really match the look he’s going for) and shifts from one foot to the other in the doorway.

“Too much?” Q asks.

“Never,” Bond answers immediately, and his face is soft when he approaches. “You’re beautiful.”

“Oh,” is all Q can say for a moment, and feels silly for getting tongue-tied over one compliment; it’s not as though Bond never says nice things about him, but he’s not always quite so… direct. “Thank you.”

Bond smiles and steps a little closer with the obvious intent of a kiss. He actually has to tilt his head up a little, the heels giving Q about an inch over Bond, but he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

When they part, Bond takes one of Q’s hands and gestures to the space by the stereo, where he’s apparently shoved the couch back a bit. “Would you like to dance?”

Even biting down on a grin, Q cocks one smoothed eyebrow at Bond. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Come on,” Bond insists, tugging Q across the living room and nudging him into position.

Q rarely does any kind of traditional dancing, and even then he’s really only led, but it’s not too difficult to reverse the steps, and Bond is patient. Before long, they’re turning easy circles to the gentle violins and piano coming from the speaker system.

“This seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to, just for a night in,” Q says, voice quiet in deference to the atmosphere.

“A _nice_ night in,” Bond corrects him solemnly. “I’m trying to give you a whole experience here. We’re going to put the delivery on real plates and everything.”

The smile Bond gives Q is charming and the night he’s set out for them so quickly and easily is wonderfully sweet and for a moment, it’s too much. Q stops.

“Why aren’t you upset?”

Bond’s brows go up. “Would you like me to be upset?”

“No, I – of course not, but–”

“Are you upset with me when I have plans but I’m sent out? Or when I’ve just come back and go quiet on you for a while?”

“Of _course_ not. I–”

“Then why should I be upset with you?”

“This is _different,”_ Q snaps. “It’s just… different.”

Q glances down and away with a sigh. He tries – he tries very hard to be confident in all aspects of himself, and he has friends now, even a lover, who take him just as he is, but the fact remains that he’s spent most of his life in one kind of closet or another.

He wants to be proud, and manages it more days than he ever used to, but it’s still difficult sometimes. It frustrates him, and he can’t imagine why it doesn’t frustrate Bond.

Bond sighs, reaching up to cup Q’s face in both his hands, lifting his gaze back up.

“One day,” Bond says, “I’ll convince you to love yourself as much as I love you. But in the meantime, maybe you’ll just take my word for it?”

Q searches Bond’s face; he knows the man is, by necessity, an excellent liar, but also knows that he isn’t needlessly cruel. Not if it can be helped. Q wants to believe him.

And one day, Q hopes, he’ll manage enough love for himself all on his own. But in the meantime, he thinks the fact that Bond loves him is pretty good, too.

In the meantime, he’ll love Bond right back.

Leaning into Bond’s touch, Q nods a little. “Okay,” he says softly.

Bond smiles, just a little. “Okay,” he echoes.

They dance a little more until the food arrives. They eat and they talk and they make each other smile. They go to bed and, despite whatever plans they may have originally had, simply fall asleep wrapped around one another. It’s easier than Q expects, given the way the day went, and it’s nice.

He knows that however he wakes up, he’ll still be loved. And it’s nice.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr](https://solarmorrigan.tumblr.com/post/186610040613/date-night-james-bond-00q-day-28-it-is)


End file.
